Free Longarm 244: Longarm and the Devil's Sister by Tabor Evans Page A

strode up the stairs and down the hall ahead of him made his sacrifice seem a tad easier to contemplate. He knew she was walking that way on purpose. It sure beat all how Mexicans named gals Dolores, Perfidia, and such. You hardly ever met Anglo gals named Sadness or Astray. This strayed slanty-eyed one had likely changed her name for business reasons, like Silver Heels, Snake Hips, or Squirrel Tooth in more Anglo houses of ill repute.
    The chamber Perfidia led him too was small and dark enough to qualify for a nun’s cell. There was even a grimly realistic crucifix nailed to the ’dobe wall above the head of the bed. But after that the bed was a tad bigger and softer than you’d find in most convents and the window slit was glazed with rose colored panes to make everything inside look sort of like fresh meat.
    As she shut and barred the door behind them Perfidia said, “Bueno! We are free to talk, now. For why have you come to Sheffield-Crossing, Querido? Do you search for Don David El Diablo? Those rangers who came by told us they were seeking, too.”
    Longarm said, “I don’t know who you’re talking about and I’m only a poor but honest cow hand, looking for a damned job. Who’s this Diablo gent and do you want to fuck or gossip?”
    Perfidia laughed girlishly and said, “Si, ahora mismo, ” in a casual tone, considering the way she peeled her chemise off over her head to face him bold as brass without a stitch.
    Her tawny torso betrayed some European ancestry by curving in and out more than Indian or Oriental shapes that short usually managed.
    But like many Indian or Oriental gals, Perfidia sported way less body hair than your average white gal and Longarm’s needs grew one hell of a lot more urgent when she calmly sat down on the bed covers, leaned back on her elbows to spread her thighs wide as she raised her bare feet from the floor.
    He made a point of hanging his sixgun handy on a bedpost and draping his duds neatly over the one chair and it’s rail back as he undressed casually enough to prove he wasn’t an eager kid with an uncontrollable hard-on. He did have a hard-on and he suspected he was only showboating as a smooth Don Juan for himself. For despite all the bullshit about how you were supposed to treat ladies like whores and whores like ladies he knew most gals, even schoolmarms, knew way more about men than they let on. For whether a young gal wanted to study men or not, men commenced to study gals and make total assholes out of themselves long before young gals were allowed to receive flowers, books, and candy from any of ’em.
    So, knowing how dumb it was to walk a picket fence for a schoolgal or pretend you were in charge to a whore, Longarm rose from that chair in his own naked glory, stiff as a poker, to move over to the bed and take Perfidia up on her kind offer.
    Her slant eyes opened wide and she gasped, “Ay, que grueso !” as he dropped to his knees on the rug to enter her, pleasantly surprised by her tightly pulsating, wet warmth, even before she began to move her hips in time with his thrusts. He found himself really thrusting, after all that time without a woman. It felt sort of silly to enjoy even a pretty whore that much. But she was one hell of a lay, and he was sort of proud of himself for not proposing to take her away from all this and make her his own forever by the time he’d come in her hard enough to feel it all the way down to his clenched toes.
    If he hadn’t known better, he’d have believed her when she moaned she’d come, too. Neither one of them felt all that cool, now. So when she suggested they get into a less awkward position to smoke and sip sangria, Longarm allowed that sounded like a swell notion.
    But she didn’t seem to have a pitcher of wine punch on hand, and it got even less comfortable when, after she’d let him light them a cheroot to share as they leaned against the